


Situations

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:54:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: root x shaw-shaw comes into work one day sporting a huge ass hickey and John and Lionel tease her about it and root can't help but grin at her handy work as Finch pretends he hears nothing and shaw is fuming out her ears and yells at everyone except root (who just grins the whole day)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Situations

**Author's Note:**

> (Totally awkward beginning so yeah, PG-13 warning)

_The day is warm_. Warmer than it has been in months- the warmest day in winter. Without taking even a step outdoors, Shaw can tell. Laying, eyes closed, she feels the burning heat of the morning sun on her skin, causing enough warmth that she groggily rips away her covers. Her hands come back to her sides, palms up to absorb the sunlight, when there is a sudden drop of temperature. She can feel a shadow blocking the sun, and opens one eye slightly.

 _Root._  Her eyes are closed, one hand covering a yawn as she lays on her side. Shaw turns her head over to face Root, ignoring the instantaneous chill coming to her cheeks. Root opens her eyes finally, hair pressed close to her head against the pillow, and she rolls the shoulder that faces up. Once her eyes come to focus, they stick to Shaw, and a smile spreads across her face.

"Morning, Sweetie," she greets in a yawn. "Sleep well?" Shaw looks at her a moment before answering.

"Yeah." Root raises eyebrows slightly, shifting her head in contemplation. Shaw waits, muscles tensing slightly.

* * *

 

” _Really.._?” Root starts off slowly. “Because I didn’t think you slept  _much_  at all. I mean,” Root tilts her head closer, a smirk coming to her face. “I know  _I_  didn’t, at least.” Clenching her teeth, Shaw sits up in bed, burning eyes never once leaving Root.  _Wipe that smug look off your face_ , Shaw thinks hostilely, watching Root. Her phone rings, and Shaw reluctantly breaks her smoldering stare to grab it. Swinging her legs over the bed, she leans forward slightly, bringing the device to her ear; feeling her toes touching the floor.

"Hello," Shaw spits out, anger still flaring. From behind her, the bed shifts.

"Good morning, Miss. Shaw," Harold’s voice comes to her, sounding chipper.

"What right do you have to be this happy at  _six_  a.m.?” Shaw asks, half joke surfacing in her voice. Her heart jumps to her throat, feeling hands on her. The right stops on Shaw’s right shoulder, the left circling itself around Shaw’s midsection. Keeping the phone pressed to her left ear, she tries hard to block out the tingling sensation Root’s touch brings.

"I just finished grading papers," Harold replies merrily. "Ones that- this time-  _someone_  did  _not_  get a hold of.” Shaw can hear his tone change, shifting to speak to a presence that is not her own. Silently, in the background, she hears Bear give a short noise. She almost laughs, but the sound gets stuck in her throat as Root presses herself against Shaw’s back, her lips coming to the side of Shaw’s neck. She can feel her pulse quicken as they dance just above her skin.

"That’s uh- that’s great, Harold," Shaw replies in a stiff voice, staying as composed as possible as Root’s lips finally fall to her neck. Her free hand grips hard to the mattress as they press down harder.

"Yes, gives me time to be at the station," he replies conversationally, oblivious to Shaw’s jittery state. "Speaking of which, have you heard from Miss. Groves? I had something to tell her, but she hasn’t been answering… You wouldn’t happen to be at the terminal with her?"

Root’s breath is hot on Shaw’s neck, and she can’t seem to focus on anything more than a second. Every time she tries, all thoughts are sucked back to Root.  _What Root’s doing. What I’m thinking_.

"No." Shaw replies shortly, even that one syllable word hard to voice. She can feel the fronts of Root’s teeth gliding across her skin, and has to bite her own lip to keep from making a sound. Her jaw sets stiffly, and Harold continues to speak.

"Have you seen her at  _all_?” Her hold on the mattress is deadly, knuckles white with the amain effort. She closes her eyes tight, biting down on her bottom lip hard. Root’s hold on Shaw tightens slightly, and her mouth pulls open just enough for her to let out a short breath before repeating her previous motions.

Not able to take it anymore, Shaw’s words are fast and sharp like a machine gun. “Nosorrygottogobye.” Swiftly, she hangs up, tossing the phone back to the side table, and jumping up to a standing position. She lets out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, and her stomach slowly starts to un-knot. She swallows the lump in her throat before slowly turning around.

"Root.." Shaw says with a dangerous air, finally opening her eyes. She sees Root’s cocky smirk, eyes brimming with amusement. "Was that necessary?"

Root merely shrugs her shoulders.

"Let me rephrase," Shaw says in the same tone. "Was that necessary while I was _on the phone_.” She is too shaken to even attempt forming it into a question. Root’s smirk only deepens.

"Depends," Root replies cryptically. Shaw grinds her teeth together, willing her nerves to stop. _Please, just calm down._

"On..?"

"On how you feel now?" At her provocative tone, Shaw turns, shaking her head free of every thought surrounding Root. She walks swiftly to her dresser, pulling out a t-shirt and black jeans for the day. The hot day, she reminds herself, thinking just how warm the black pants are going to be by noon. Pulling the shirt on over her head, Shaw freezes, eyes glued open as she gawks into the mirror. _What the hell is…_ Her thoughts trail off, knowing full well what it is. Her hand comes to her neck numbly, fingertips just barely brushing over the large, red mark there. Root appears behind her in the mirror, sporting nothing more than undergarments as she encases Shaw’s waist in her arms, resting her chin on Shaw’s shoulder. Seeing Shaw’s borderline mortification, she lets out a warm, musical laugh.

"Don’t  _worry_ , Sameen,” she says light-heartedly. Bringing her hands up to Shaw’s shoulders, Root lifts her head, nose touching Shaw’s ear. “It’ll go away… eventually.” With that, Root kisses her cheek, then rummages through the side closet for clothes. Shaw remains terribly still.

______\ If Your Number’s Up /______

Shaw tugs at the scratchy turtle neck, wanting more than anything to rid herself of the itchy material. She scratches at her neck, her forearm, her shoulder. The wool pulls at her skin, black color not even close to making up for the dire discomfort Shaw feels. A bead of sweat forms at her temple, and she angrily swipes it away. Instantly, that part of her face itches- coming into contact with the shirt no more than a second. Shaw can feel her ears redden with rage. _This is her fault,_  she thinks bitterly,  _I had to change into- into this._

"Just take it off," Root says as they walk into the subway’s entrance.

"Not a chance," Shaw replies grumpily.

"But you have a tank top on underne-"

"I said no, Root."

"No to what?" John asks, looking their way as they approach. There is a coy light in his eyes, and Shaw gives him a deadly glare.

"No matter what it is," Harold cuts in, saving Shaw from the conversation, "could it be postponed?"

"It can be canceled," Shaw replies, shooting her hostile share to Root, then stalking past. "What do you need?"

"Well," Harold says, patting his hands against his sides, "I could use help with semester essays." Shaw groans.

"That’s our  _big mission_  of the day?” Shaw says with an annoyed whine surfacing in her voice. “We’re grading your kids’  _papers_?”

Walking over to his desk, he selects the first, thick packet of pages off the desk, then comes back, holding it up to her. “The Full Studies of the H&K USP Compact in .45ACP,” Harold reads off to her, and after a moment of debate, she rips it from his hands.

"This  _better_  be good, Harold,” she warns, walking over to the subway car to read. “Or his grade won’t be the  _only_  thing suffering.” Harold watches her walk off, then lets out a small sigh. He looks back as Root’s heels come clicking forward, a smile playing on her face.

"Anything for me?" She asks, and he retrieves another large essay.

"Sorry for its simplicity, Miss. Groves, his analysis of algorithms are nothing compared to what you are used to, but-"

"A project is a project, Harry," she interrupts, taking the packet and waltzing away. Harold looks to John, not even sure if it is okay to ask. After a moment of staring, John brings his arms forward, palms out.

"What the hell," he offers, and Harold quickly hands him an essay.

"That leaves… two for me," Harold concludes, looking to the forty pages laying on his desk, separated only by staples.

"Make it one, Glasses." The heavy New York accent of Lionel Fusco bursts through the mostly quiet space, filling it with the feeling of good humor. "What am I readin’?"

Harold grudgingly hands the detective a packet. “Know anything about Molecular Reconstruction?” Harold asks, slight dread in his voice.

"No, but I know how to spell check," Fusco replies, chuckling as he walks away. Harold gives John an exasperated look, then walks back to his desk. Coming forward, John peers at the trio before him.

On the far side of the subway car, there’s Shaw. She sits, head straight down, invested in the written mechanics of one of her favorite weapons. Directly to her left, Root leans far back in the plastic chair, paper to her eyes, and legs crossed. The tip of her shoe rests against Shaw’s lower leg. Across from them, and closer to John, Lionel sits with a slightly furrowed brow, circling random words with a red pen. After a moment’s deliberation, John takes a seat to the vacant side of Shaw, putting his right foot on his left knee casually. Fusco looks up at him distastefully.

"What? I’m not worth nothing to ya anymore?" He asks sourly. John answers this with a don’t-be-childish glare.

"I  _actually_  have a question for Shaw,” he answers slowly, and Fusco catches on. Something is stirring in the pot.

"Whaddaya want, John," Shaw remarks, not really invested in his words.

"Why are you wearing a turtleneck in seventy degree weather?" Shaw freezes, but her eyes stay on the page.

"I like this shirt," she replies defensively. John laughs.

"What is it you like most, Shaw? The sweat factor, or the itching?" She purses her lips angrily. "What are you hiding?" He asks.

"None of your business."

"As detectives," John points across the way to Fusco, "it is our  _duty_ to make  _everything_ our business.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything more. From her side, John sees Root concealing the smallest of indulgent smiles. A smirk turns up on his own lips.

"It has something to do with Root, doesn’t it?" Her grip tightens on the essay, and John and Lionel look at each other, knowing they’ve hit the mark.

"You can tell us," Lionel says with innocence. "We’ll give you our full support."

"I need your support like Julius Cæsar needs another knife to the  _back_ ,” Shaw spits, receiving a long, cross glare from Fusco. After a minute of looking between the two, Root clears her throat, directing her words to Fusco.

"It means she doesn’t nee-"

"I know what it means," he shoots back defensively, eyes not straying from Shaw.

"What is it, Shaw?" John asks, leaning in closer, voice secretive. "Tattoo? Lipstick? Bite marks?"

"Shut  _up_ , Reese!” Shaw screams, eyes now on him, daring him to say another word. He smiles, knowing he’s caught the fish on the line, ready now to reel her in.

"Awe,  _c’mon_ ,” John says with play in his words, bringing a hand up to brush away a few strands of hair from her face. She jerks her head away from him instantly, and the swift motion causes the turtle neck to slide down just enough to see a pink rim. Piquing his interest, John lets his hand stop its previous plan, and his fingers easily drag down the black material. He sees the pink give way to red in an oval shape on the side of her neck. It’s less than a second, but still more than enough time for John and Lionel to see. Shaw’s hand grips Reese’s wrist hard, and she turns it, feeling the bones within grind against her force. No matter how bad the pain is, nothing can surpass his overall beaming delight.

” _Ooohh_ ,” he coos to Lionel, looking at him with perplexed eyes. “That wasn’t what I was expecting.”

"Yeah," Lionel replies, sharing the same tone, slightly smug hints shining through. "Never took you as the type."

Shaw’s steaming now, blood boiling at 104, and her teeth are bared behind enraged lips. Beside her, Root shimmers with pride.

"So, tell us," John prompts, letting Lionel finish the thought.

"This happen in bed last night, or on the way to work?"

” _Neither_ ,” Shaw spits, instantly regretting speaking at all. John and Lionel share impressed looks.

"Neither," Fusco repeats.

"That’s interesting," John concludes with a nod.

"What are you,  _school girls_?” Shaw seethes, temper raging and voice growing increasingly loud. Through the window, Shaw catches a fleeting look from Harold out of the corner of her eye.

"Just… curious," John muses, looking at her profile. "So, where was it?"

"None of your-"

"We’ll just keep guessing," Lionel informs her.

"I don’t-"

"Was it during your coffee run?" John asks, feeling Shaw’s anger hitting him like waves. Root leans forward on her elbows, eyes for telling of a large secret to be told.

"It was… this morning," she admits, looking back and forth between the two boys. "Surprised Harold didn’t tell you," she continues with fake stupefaction. "He was on the phone with her when it happened." Fusco’s jaw unhinges slightly, not expecting this in the slightest. John, on the other hand, lets out a hearty laugh.

"You  _dog_ ,” he exclaims, clapping Shaw on the back. At the touch, she bolts into a standing position, anger brewing over.

"If you’ll  _excuse_ me,” her voice is loud and riddled with frustration- hot with embarrassment. “But I have  _work_  to do.” She points to the essay, then walks out, wishing she’d pointed with a different finger instead.

__________\ We’ll Find You /____________

Stepping out of the subway car was like spitting on a forest fire. It didn’t do much. Behind her, she could still hear Reese and Lionel talking, feeling their eyes on the back of her neck, and Root put in her occasional word. Stalking over to Harold, she slams the essay down on the desk, then begins to read once more. Harold looks over to her, taking in her taut, upright position. He wonders if he should open his mouth at all in the matter, not able to come to a clear conclusion.

” _What._ " Shaw demands, not looking up from the text. Only four pages in.

"I-.." Harold trails off, collecting his thoughts. "I may have heard about your predicament," Harold eases the idea into the conversation, and Shaw bristles.

"I don’t want to talk about it." She deadpans between clenched teeth. Harold nods, looking back to his paper.

"I understand," he replies without much effort. A few minutes roll by; he flips the page, then stops, knowing he hadn’t seen a single word on the one before it. "Is that really why you sounded so… on the phone?" Harold bursts out, and Shaw can take it no more. She slams the essay shut, eyes like poison darts piercing deep into Harold’s skull.

"Sounded like  _what,_ " she yells, hearing her words bounce off of the station walls.

"Sounded so- so  _strained_ , or  _preoccupied_ , or…” He trails off, seeing the poison darts changing to missiles.

"Why is this such a  _big deal?!_ " Her hands fly up into the air, knocking the packet to the ground. "Is it because we are the  _only_  two people with even the most  _remote_  sort of  _love life_?” She’s screaming now, anger far from control. “Because no one is stopping  _you_ , or  _John_ , or  _Lionel_  from going on Match.com. Go  _try_  it.”

"Miss. Shaw, I do not think-"

"I really don’t care what you _do_ or do  _not_ think,” Shaw hisses, staring straight at Harold. There are footsteps on tile, and Shaw looks up to see Root coming her way.

"What do you want," Shaw’s words are harsh, but her voice is finally at an inside level.

"Just checking in on my favorite person," Root replies with a sweet smile, coming just in front of Shaw. "We heard you yelling."

Looking past Root, Shaw sees the two men in the train car. John wears a smug grin, and Fusco waves daintily her way. Shaw shakes her head in annoyance, eyes focusing back on Root. “They’re idiots,” Shaw remarks.

"Yes," Root agrees with a small laugh in her voice. "But they’re  _your_  idiots.”

"They’re  _Harold’s_  idiots,” Shaw corrects. Root tilts her head, brushing her hair behind her ear to get a clearer view of Shaw.

"Does it bother you  _that_  much?” Root asks as Shaw scratches at her arm through the shirt.

” _Yeah_ , it  _does_ , actually.”

"Well, next time," Root assures her in a silent voice, "I’ll make sure it’s somewhere that  _won’t_  be so obvious.” Shaw rolls her eyes at the words, brushing past Root.  _Well next time_ , she mimics in her mind, steaming. She sticks out her tongue angrily at the mere thought of the words, then searches for Bear- for anything to distract her from this.

"And stop smiling!" Shaw yells back to her, feeling the smile on Root’s face without even looking.

"Why?" Root calls in return. "I did a good job."


End file.
